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Damnation follows death in other men,
25 But 'tis fubftantial happinefs to eat. Let eafe, his last request, be of your giving, Nor force him to be damn’d to get his living.
* PROLOGUE to The Three Hours after
AUTHORS are judg’d by ftrange capricious rules;
The great ones are thought mad, the small ones.
fools: Yet sure the best are most feverely fated; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated.
Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor ;
5 But fool.'gainst fool is barb'rous civil war. Why on all authors then should critics fall? Since some have writ, and shewn no wit at all. Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it ; Cry, " Damn not us, but damn the French who
made it." By running goods these graceless owlers gain ; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain: But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, : 15 And teach dull Harlequins to grini in vain.
How Shall our author hope a gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not translate ! It had been civil in these ticklish times To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes. 20 Spaniards and French abufe to the world's end, But spare old England, left you hurt a friend. If any fool is by our fatire bit, Let him hiss loud, to fhew you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as salesmen cloaths : 25. We take no measure of your fops and beaus ; But here all sizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth-street.
GALLANTS ! look bere : this fool's cap * has an air Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar.
30 Let no one fool ingrofs it, or confine, A common blessing ! now 'tis yours, now mine. But poets in all
had the care To keep this cap, for such as will, to wear. Qur author has it now (for every
35 Of course resign'd it to the next that writ) ; And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown t; Let him that takes it, wear it as his own. • Shows a cap with cars. + Flings down the cap, and crita
A proper new BALLAD on the new Ovid's Meta
MORPHOSES, as it was intended to be translated by persons of quality.
Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town, Read this, ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.
Rare imp of Phæbus, hopeful youth !
Like puppy tame, that uses To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the muses.
Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was fo civil ; And fell his soul for vanity
To rhyming and the devil?
A dek he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Tho' Ovid lay without.
Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
Forth popp'd the sprite so thin,
All upright as a pin.
And ruff compos'd moft duely,
While as the light burnt bluely.
Write on, nor let me scare ye ;
To Budgel seek, or Carey.
Poor Ovid finds no quarter !
In hafte without his garter.
Wits, witlings. prigs, and peers :
Beats up for volanteers.
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
John Dunton, Steele, or any one.
If Justice Philips' costive head
Some frigid rhymes disburses ; They shall like Perfian Tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.
Let Warwick's muse with Ah-t join,
And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's, Tickell and 'Addison combine,
And Pope tranllate with servis.
L- himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,
And be like Tate and Brady.
Ye ladies too draw forth your pen ;
where can the hurt lie? Since
have brains as well as men, As witness Lady Wortley.
Now, Tonfon, lift thy forces all,
Review them, and tell nores :
A metamorphosis more strange
Than all his books can vapour“ To what," (quoth 'íquire) “ shall Ovid change?" 25
Quoth Sandys, To waste paper.
U - M B R ' A.
CLOSE to the best-known author Umbra fits,
The constant index to all Button's wits. Who's here? cries Umbra : only Johnson Ob! Your Nave, and exit ; but returns with Rowe : Dear Rowe, let's fit and talk of tragedies :
5 Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies. Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment faftens upon Steele ;